Michelle,
despite herself, is suddenly shy.
Morgan stands before her dressed in a bath towel—under which his penis
nervously shrinks. She beckons him demurely; he turns off the light. For reasons unexplained, Michelle
wants to see, wants to witness his exertions, wants
to watch his buttocks hump her, to verify the moment when his genes, with hers,
unite, contributing a fair complexion (Morgan's skin is faultless), intelligence
(he is doubtless smart), creativity (poems his gift);
a better mate she cannot hope to have appropriated.

The box springs squeak.

Michelle foregoes the light,
for now; his lips—so soft—make contact. Tongues play tag, encounter.
Morgan's towel comes loose, slips off. Their torsos—his above—compress; her breasts,
to his, surrender, consolidate their bulging globes.
He shifts; she gasps; he sucks. His mouth envelops tissue that electrifies
her body, from the nipple he belabors, to the clitoris he abuts, his
phallus stiffened, crushed against her like a sapling seeking shelter from
a wind so strong its trunk is bent to breaking. Milk secretes, a latent trickle turns the taste of Morgan's
tart saliva into something he
remembers like a phantom, something primal, something wholesome yet
arousing in a sexual sense, neurotic, in that fear of loss instills a
thirst redoubled. Left to right, he nurses greedily at her unexampled
ripeness, her abundance, her responsiveness, as he revels in her taste, her
shape, her zeal.